


Red Like Fire, Red Like Burning

by blueoleandar93



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Character Death, F/M, Kidnapping, as much as a supernatural character can die, but a lot, demon make up, it's not my fault it was a prompt, poor samandriel, which is not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueoleandar93/pseuds/blueoleandar93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samandriel finds life after death quite confusing thanks to a certain red headed Knight of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Like Fire, Red Like Burning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marmia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmia/gifts).



He saw red--red like fire, red like burning. Electricity shooting all through his veins and up his vessel's spine. He was dead, right? Samandriel was positive that he was... at least, he was a moment ago. After days of torture at the hand of the King of Hell, being poked and prodded and scalded and chained, the sharp sting of Castiel's blade pushing through his chest and puncturing the heart of the vessel he had been forcibly locked into and ending the bleeding, aching pain had almost been welcome. Almost.

After then, he isn't quite sure what had happened to him.

As a fledgling, Samandriel had always figured that after an angel was killed, they ceased to exist on any plane. Heaven and Hell was reserved for humans, Purgatory was the monsters' afterlife, but angels existed in that strange, uncharted go-between. They were niether man nor beast. Raised to be warheads and nothing more, most angels--foot soldiers like him--were disposable canon fodder at most. Their only purpose was to serve God and His will, so their grace needn't exist if it weren't useful. Samandriel had always guessed that their entire being self-destructed like one of those little villains' lairs in 70's movies, the broken glass and button pushed by a fatal strike from an enemy's sword.

The blade was heavy in his chest as it nestled through his vital organ. Castiel was standing above his body, watching with eyes that weren't his as his trenchcoated vessel's hand lay wrapped around the other end of the blade. Samandriel watched through blurred eyes as he felt the remainder of his grace burning out with a heady rush.

His vessel, Alfie, was crying. The boy couldn't feel a thing--Samandriel made sure that he had him locked far, far away in a corner of his mind that even Crowley couldn't get his grubby, demonic hands on, but he was sure that the boy knew what was happening to the both of them. They were dying.

At least it wasn't slow.

Samandriel's grace built up pressure and heat, rushing to his chest and pushing itself out of him by way of his back. He didn't have enough left to leave a mark, and for some reason, that made this all worse. He never imagined dying like this. Bloody, weak, nearly graceless, vessel smeared in tears, saliva, sweat, and dirt. He was a failure of an angel, wasn't he? Too young, too exciteable, too ready to serve. He never would have lasted in the field. Even during the Heavenly Civil War, his superiors put him on Hermes duty. Sending messages back and forth and never once picking up a blade of his own was terse, tedious, and slightly demeaning, but Samandriel was happy. Dying a hero's death was one he had hoped for himself six, maybe seven thousand years in the future after bringing pride to his Almighty Father. The angel barely had two hundred years behind him and here he was, covered in human debris and losing his short life to the angel he most looked up to.

As the last of his grace shoved itself out, Samandriel lost the ability to move. He felt Alfie's soul weep long and aching wails as the ancient reaper appeared at their side. The angel of death stared down at them with tired eyes, clouded over with age and face contorted and shadowed with valleys of wrinkled skin, hanging off of his bones. Samandriel could feel the reaper's judgement. He would have felt shame if he wasn't so... damned... weak.

His eyelids were heavy and closing as Alfie took the old angel's bony hand. He had no idea if Alfie looked back at him one last time. Samandriel decided that he would prefer it better if he did. You know what? He didn't even want to know. The young boy had so much potential, so much life ahead of him. He was seventeen years old with a steady job and high school to complete. He had SATs to take and a prom to go to. He had a woman to marry and children to have. Not anymore. Samandriel went and got them caught and ripped all of that from innocent, little Alfred. He took both of their lives and if he had time for pennance, he would spend all of it without forgiving himself for what he had done to this boy.

Alfie's parents must be worried sick. Samandriel can't imagine how much worse it will be for them when they finally see his body, broken and tortured to ribbons by the harshest of sadists.

But, he couldn't worry about that now.

No, really.

He physically couldn't.

Samandriel didn't have the energy.  
He felt himself slipping away and out of this plane of existence. Everything was dark. He couldn't feel anything, not even the blade lodged in his chest. There wasn't a thing more for him. Just this. The slide into the abyss. Emptiness. Death.

  
And then, there was nothing.

* * *

 

Then, there was a whole lot.

Throbbing pain in his empty vessel's temples, a twist in his stomach, the sharp stink of dust, a tightness around his wrists keeping him bound where he sat on something that felt hard and wooden. Samandriel opened his eyes for the first time in a long while and after the initial burn of the light in his underused retinas, he winced and watched as a shadow lurking in a corner chuckled darkly. It was a woman.

Or, at least it sounded like one.

There was something there beneath the spry, twinkling female voice that hinted at something else. Something darker. Something much, much darker.

Samandriel took the opportunity to rasp out of a tight, dry throat, "Where am I?"

  
The female sounding voice chuckled again, soft tones bouncing sharply against the walls of the cavernous room. It was cold in there. Freezing. The room was too dark to place much other than high ceilings and cement floors.

Samandriel guesses he's in a basement, abandoned building, old shack--somewhere where his screams won't be heard.

Quietly taking a decent whiff, he scented the odorous tang of sulfur. Perfect. Demons. They couldn't just torture him on pain of death one time, could they? They had to drag him back from God knows where and bring him here for round two. Samandriel felt his shoulders fall all on their own as his chest grew heavy with emotion that he wasn't used to.

What was this feeling? Sadness, regret, dissapointment, anger? He wouldn't know. He's never felt any of those before, but he's heard of them from Alfie. From what he's been told, emotions don't sound niether fun nor convenient. Yet, here he is with them all battling each other for the forefront of attention in his head.

Samandriel kind of wants to throw up. But he won't, because that would be gross. And counterproductive.

He barked out again, voice carrying more weight as he demanded, "Where am I, demon?"

The feminine voice answered patiently, "Colorodo."

Samandriel rolled his stinging eyes, "Well, that narrows it down."

"Hey, you asked, I answered," she stalled as she continued, "Albiet, I gave you the classic MapQuest version, but you got what you wanted in the end, didn't you, Angel Cakes? Location, location, location."

Samandriel curled his fingers around the edge of the arm rests of his wooden chair. The cuffs binding him had spellwork all through them. He could feel it burning his skin, thrumming with thousands of years of power and grace that he couldn't access. This isn't a good sign. This isn't a good sign at all. He grimaced into the dark, "My name isn't 'Angel Cakes', it's Samandriel."

The "woman" spoke from the shadows, "Oh, I'm well aware of who you are. Quite a mouthful, your name is. Can I call you Louie? You look like a Louie."

"No, you may not," Samandriel spat out with a discontented growl. 

Chuckling that dark, skin crawling laugh, the shadows moved. Light filtered in behind her slender form as the abomination of a creature stepped forward. He glanced up, taking her seemingly human appearance in with confusion. The beast wore tight leather pants, combat boots, a black jacket with silver zippers all over the place, and an ironic tee shirt that had "The Devil Made Me Do It" emblazoned across her shapely breasts. Samandriel huffed. Well, that statement is sure to be unlikely.

His eyes traveled up her curvy body with hesitation after that. A creature of Hell whom mocks her origin in such a way can't be afraid, which means that she is either really stupid or really powerful.

The hesitation melted away as his eyes lingered, becoming replaced with something else that he couldn't quite place. Her body was quite beautiful. It was aesthetically pleasing in more ways than he was used to. The curve of her hips made his mouth dry and the youthfulness of her soft looking body was enough to set his teeth on edge. Many feelings were new to him, as were a lot of things we're when he first took a vessel, but this feeling was the oddest and most foreign of all. His chest felt compressed and his eyes went tight. His heart rate increased into a beat that couldn't be safe for his vessel. His hands grew clammy with sweat and the whole room felt as it were too small for the both of them.

He is kind of scared, but at the same time, he's also okay with it--the fear. He hasn't been scared in a long time and that fluttery trembling feeling in his gut means that he's alive. Samandriel clung to it, shifting his gaze to settle on her face.

It was awful.

Her cheeks were rammed in with scars and her skin was leathered with deep, jagged cuts. Her eyes were large and white all the way through and her eyebrows stretched up her forehead, sinking into her hairline in a sharp slope. She didn't have any lips. Those seemed to have been torn off and sewed back on, cut into a terrifying grin, full of broken, rotted, and fanged teeth. Samandriel shank back in his seat as she drew closer and closer and closer to him.  
Samandriel pressed his back as close as he could get it to the chair. He wants to be as far away from this creature as could be. Yet, that didn't seem to be a possibility seeing as he was powerless and tied up and tressed to die once more in "Colorodo".

She paused, stopping before running a red nail polish tipped finger down the side of her own scarred and ripped up face before glamouring it into something much more plesant. Instead of the beastly she-devil that once stalked towards him like a wolf to her prey, there stood a strong looking ginger haired woman. Her once fearful skin was now smooth and pale, white eyes led to a deep, piercing blue, and her torn and stitched lips were now soft looking and painted to match her vibrant hair.

Those lips were red--red like fire, red like burning. He felt that confusing feeling again and his palms got even more moist then they were before, nearly soaking with perspiration. Her red hair cascaded down her back in wavy ringlets towards the end, carefree and neat as her blue eyes flashed with the venom that snakes carry.

"I hope that little face of mine didn't cause you a fright. I forgot that I needed to powder my nose before speaking to a genteleman," she grinned out, face lighting up in a way that was almost lovely, "Josie always kept a well stocked pantry. Stupid lovesick whore just adored her lipstick. Thought it made her look more grown up."

There went that chuckle again.

Dark, sickly, dripping with evil. Yet, in this face, it wasn't as scary as it was confusing Samandriel even further. He knew he should be scared, and he was definitely fearful. But, he didn't know what he feared most; the thought of her blade on his skin or her soft hands there instead. He felt sticky and panicked and sore. His heart rate accellarated even further as she got closer and closer to his chair, a tingling, blood rushing feeling that pressed downward, giving passion to this wild side of him he never knew he had. He really wanted something. But, he didn't know what it was.

Samandriel nearly sighed to himself. He's sick of being confused. He wishes to know and have everything split into nice, neat, cut and dry boxes, just like his superior Rachel taught him to do. It was safe, it was simple. It was what he was used to. But, this whole blood-pounding, soul-aching yearning was new to him in ways that were nothing short of terrifying.

He spoke in a shaking voice and a blushing face as he tried to keep eye contact with her, "Why did you bring me here? What did you do?! I'm dead. I know I'm dead. This is all wrong."

The demon got closer and closer, leather sheathed shins pressing against the frayed knees of his denim pant. Heat spread all over the area where their legs met, and Samandriel felt compromised.

Speaking with a devistatingly lovely smile, she said, "Dead? Oh, you are. Or... were anyway. I worked a little dark magic and got you back. Gathering all of that strewn grace was a bitch and a half, but I made it work. Why, you ask? Leverage. I need to hook in another one of your cloud hopping buddies. You see, I would normally just summon him, torture him, get what I want, the whole nine, but... it's not that easy. He's hidden from me, that winged piece of shit. So, I need to make him come to me. And... here's where you come in. I let slip that I have you captured, helpless, in need of saving, and before we know it, my angel will come. And he will bring a special human whose heart I must impail with the pointiest thing I can find."

Samandriel balked, "But... I'm.."

"Scared? Alone? Trembling in your little boots?" the demons grinned, "I know. But, don't worry, Angel Cakes," she stepped even closer to him, reaching her legs around to straddle the angel's thighs, flicking out an angel blade from under her sleeve. She gazed at it blissfully for a moment before turning to the young angel and running the point of it down his soft skin without drawing blood. His heart rate accelerated, the walls of the room got even closer. Samandriel felt as if he were falling apart, coming undone at his very seams. This demon was tearing him to pieces. The blade scraped softly against his skin and his breath stuttered as she chuckled out darkly, "When I'm done with you... I'll kill you gentle."

A shiver went down Samandriel's spine and his skin felt tingly all over as the fear factor hiked up another few feet. His voice felt as if it were trapped in his throat and his pants felt too small for him, tight in the crotch as the blood that was once piled up in his cheeks found purchase elsewhere. He prayed that this wasn't happening. This feeling, this rush, this passion... it was base, animalistic, and human. Sure, angels like Balthazar and Gabriel have lavished themselves in these persuasions, but it was seen as the lowest act of all low acts. He was a soldier. He wasn't made to feel like this. And, yet this demon brings out every drop of this confusing, powerful need.

He noticed the clever glint in her glamoured white teeth and his body nearly shut down with realization. She's completely aware of the power she has over him, and she revels in it. Samandriel could nearly smell the haughtiness in her eyes and the knowledge twitching in her red lips as she spoke, "You really should think twice before taking a teenage vessel, Angel Cakes," she ran the blade down the side of his neck, heading to his throat and breaking the skin in one small stroke. He could feel a bead of blood running down his collarbone and catching on his red and white striped shirt. Samandriel'a gasp stalled in his chest as she finished, "Hormonal little twits, aren't they?"

Samandriel's breath hitched in his throat. His words weren't working. The heat between them was red--red like fire, red like burning. She smiled wickedly, "The name's Abaddon by the way."


End file.
